


The Men of My Life

by Ridiculosity



Series: Adventures of the Holmeses [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cynical Katie, F/M, Hamish Hooper Holmes - Freeform, Katie Holmes - Freeform, Katie goes on a date, Molly Is Patient, Mycroft the uncle, Parentlock, Sherlock doesn't take it well, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ridiculosity/pseuds/Ridiculosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katie Hooper Holmes had many things to be grateful for in her parents: for one, they didn't give her and awfully alliterating name like Hamish Hooper Holmes. But she was definitely not grateful for her father interfering with her love life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Men of My Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InMollysWildestDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMollysWildestDreams/gifts).



> Hi everybody. Since Sincerely Yours is done, I had time to write this out. It's a rather funny account of an imaginary Katie Holmes, and her love life.

I suppose I am to blame for my father, but I refuse to yield to his circular logic and his idiocy. I expected better from my mother, but then again, how much can she do? She’s one woman, and the rest of them can be absolutely, unrelentingly _muttonheaded_ when they want to be.

Just like the male race in general. What the _fuck_ is wrong with Dad? Not to mention Uncle John? Or even Uncle Mycroft?

I don’t normally like boys. A curious change from the normal sixteen year olds, but not one from the traditional “I’m not one of _those_ girls.” I never had a boyfriend, and I did not intend to; not until I met someone truly worth my time.

And of course, the imagination always strays far from reality. I always expected a prospective boyfriend to be more like me: into Shakespeare, maybe dabbling a little into Wordsworth (as a guilty pleasure which I would have caught, at once, of course). He would possibly like rock, and punk, dislike the colour pink, and passionately call out whatever current war the US was choosing to wage (I can’t even believe we’re related to that country).

The boy who ended up having my fancy was a lot more like my brother. With lesser confidence. Although, interestingly, everybody in the Holmes household reeks with confidence while my brother does not. You’d think that means that the boy I liked would be a complete pansy, but according to mum “The Holmes people have high standards in confidence, darling. If you want to survive in a place which could any day be raided for drugs, you _have_ to have a lot of confidence.”

Hamish Hooper Holmes, my brother (Mum and Dad _really_ chose to load him with alliteration as well as a lame name). He was soft-spoken. With four eyes. Good at the piano. Took after my mother and father both, while I ended up being a devil spawn with a mix of both and the greatest of all. Poor Hamish. He got the talents without the brains, while I got both.

As a Holmesian, my astounding and amazing qualities lie in writing, investigation (where I bend towards the reportive side) and being very cool headed. I’m also quite good at cutting corpses, incidentally. So you can imagine what kind of boy I would like. In fact, I’d be good for the proverbial “Boy who drives a motorbike” type. Complete with the adolescent pregnancy.

But, I am a Holmes.

The boy I like is a nervous _wreck._ He’s a little bastard for a having no confidence, and one of these days, I will _wring his neck._

David entered AP Biology, and my first thought was “Go away, you son-of-a-broken-home, with your preference for classical music, and your tendency to take the tube. Ugh, you have a dog, too. A spaniel. I have a particular dislike for that.”

But David smiled, was irritatingly nervous, and on top of all that, he wore _fucking_ glasses. _Glasses!_

“Hi. Can I sit here?”

“Sure. If you have the gumption to cut the frog. Or I will refuse on principle.”

“Well, then I shall have to switch,” he said part nervousness, part unexpected honesty. “I’m not very good at that sort of thing. Although I may be good at poetry.”

“That’s adorable – not. Do you want to get bullied?”

“Not particularly,” he said, and laughed nervously. In fact, the nervousness was getting on my nerves. “But it’s better than you forcing me to do something I don’t want to, I guess. I have weird priorities.”

You can imagine what a lame, idiotic, annoying, _git,_ he was.

I can’t even believe _I_ asked him.

All my articulation goes vanishing in the wind when I try to speak of my frustration with the boy. He’s all disarming, and kind, helps old people, but sharp. He has a good eye for literature, and he’s horrible at everything else. Well, he’s actually a fair baker. And he is _dripping_ with absurd references from texts all over the damn world. The more I talk about him, the more I am likely to swear.

Something which my Mum picked up on almost instantly.

“Katie, you’re either in love, or you’re in a phase,” she said, while cornering me after dinner (steak and potato, incidentally).

“Mum, _honestly.”_

“Seriously, dear.”

“ _Mum._ I never did the whole ‘rebellious fourteen year old thing.’ What makes you think I’m doing it now?”

“Well, that means you’re in love.”

Mum was the most horribly perceptive person on the planet. I’m so glad we take after her in many ways instead of Dad.

“Mum, when have I ever dated?”

“You don’t need to date to be in love. I loved your father for _years_ before we even dated,” said Mum, easily, washing some of the dishes.

“That’s different!” I said, in righteous indignation.

“Yes, you’re right,” said Mum thoughtfully. “We didn’t exactly ‘date’ as much as we just sort of started tumbling into be-”

“ _Mum!_ Do _not!”_

“Oh, fine. But yes, we didn’t have a ‘courting period’ as Sherlock said so wisely while trying to propose to me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said I.

“Okay, okay, tell me about the boy.”

“There is no –”

“Kat-ie,” said Mum, enunciating.

“Really –”

“Katherine!”

“Fine! There’s a boy.”

“That’s better. What’s the problem?”

“He won’t ask me out. Too nervous.”

“Well, ask _him_ out. Who needs men to do the important things anyway? Your father would have messed up everything had I not asked him to shut up and kiss me.”

“ _Mum.”_

“Yes, yes, fine.”

“Okay, so should I just ask him?”

“Yes. Although, for your safety and the boy’s – keep it out of your Dad’s ears.”

Long sigh. Exasperation. “Alright.”

“Good girl. I love you.”

“Yeah, I love you too.”

“Too cynical for your own good.”

“I get that from Dad.”

I did not expect my Dad to be _eavesdropping on me._ I was counting on some of the homeless to be following me, but I know a lot of them, so they could be side-tracked. I even thought about him having a bug in my phone, but my father took the simple art of _listening in_ and turned it into a Katie confronted problem.

Isn’t it bad enough that I live in a house surrounded by spy-ware? That my room door could be burnt at any time by my good Father? That Irene Adler shows up every now and again to whisk away any privacy left?

And yes, my Dad did overhear a conversation I had with David. David, thankfully, did not know of the eavesdropping Belstaffer.

My father never really had a problem with men and me; mostly because I showed not the slightest inclination towards jumping the wagon on any of them. As a child, I was always ferociously easy to get into a fight with, catty when angry, and positively hellish on a tantrum. Hamish was the easier one to handle, for he balanced the sane and insane of the family better.

But I’d always known that my father wasn’t comfortable with the idea of me dating. The way he twitched nervously whenever I mentioned any male friends, or if I spoke about getting my hair done showed what he thought of the thing. And he decided to do the Katie confronted at the dinner table.

“Katie, I don’t think you should date him,” said Father dearest after three courses of my Mum’s cooking were almost done.

Hamish had the audacity to choke on his pudding.

“Sherlock!” reprimanded Mum.

“No, I’m serious Molly,” said Dad. “He’s from a divorced couple. How do we know the genes haven’t passed on? What if he leaves you in your marriage?”

I choked on my pudding this time. “Dad, did you _stalk_ him?”

“It was a logical deduction, based on the phone conversation you had with him in the afternoon. I also know that he has a liking for writing and literature.”

“That’s irrelevant. I’m not _marrying_ him!”

“It is genetic in this family to marry the first one you fall in love with,” argued Dad.

“How on earth do you know that?” asked I, flabbergasted.

“Look at your mother. Look at me!” said Dad.

“I am. You’re both bonkers,” I said. “I don’t _love_ him. I barely like him. And anyway, why don’t we talk about Hamish and the love of his life?”

“Hey!” glared Hamish. “I don’t have a love life.”

“Aubrey won’t be pleased to hear that,” muttered my Mum.

“How do you even know about her?” asked Hamish.

“I’m sorry dear,” said Mum apologetically. “ _He_ would not drop the subject. And she’s a lovely girl, she really is. I love her take on history of medicine.”

“You _met_ her? Nevermind, don’t answer that. I have never seen two parents more involved in their offspring’s love lives,” said Hamish. “And I _don’t_ love Aubrey.”

“Yeah, but I thought you were _finally_ getting a move on and asking her!” said Mum whinily.

For fuck’s sake.

“So Katie, you shouldn’t date him. Keep boys at an arm’s distance. Maybe further than that. If you want, I can get Mycroft to make a safe zone around you.”

“Dad, I will gut you like I gutted the pigeon from upstairs,” I warned. “Stay out of it, all of you!”

“I wasn’t even getting into it,” said Hamish.

I did not expect any of them to keep out of it. I did expect them to bring in reinforcements. Which was why I was fully prepared for an attack by Uncle John, or even Uncle Greg.

The following events have been cobbled together by report and eye witnesses. Most of the eye witnesses were my Mum (whom I am ever thankful for), her friend Meena, Aunt Mary, and Abby Watson.

My Dad cornered my Mum after dinner, and I can assure you, if you think I am exaggerating the account of his reactions, then you are wrong. Nothing about this is exaggeration; in fact, I may have toned it down. You can never truly understand what an absolute _drama queen_ my father can be.

“Molly, she can’t _date._ She’s sixteen!” said Dad.

“Sherlock, she’s _sixteen!”_ argued my Mum. “Most girls begin dating at fourteen, you know. She’s allowed to date. At least it will stop her from making bad mistakes about dating when it actually matters.”

“She’s too young to be married. I won’t permit it,” said Dad.

“She’s not getting married!” said Mum.

“I looked up his facebook profile. He’s a nervous boy, you can tell, and he wears glasses, Molly. _Glasses!”_

“I wear glasses!” said Mum huffily.

“But your glasses are nice,” said my Dad dismissively.

“Thanks,” sniffed Mum.

“Molly!” said my Dad. “Can’t we at least have Mycroft do a background check on him?”

“No, Sherlock. And that’s my final word on the matter.”

You would think that that would be that, but I live in a house of loonies. Uncle John braved the staircase between 221B and 221C as he came upstairs to have a little chat with Molly.

“Molly, I hear Katie is going to begin dating soon.”

Very good, Uncle John. Lament about me getting married now.

“Well, she’s picky, but she seems to have found someone she likes,” said Mum evenly.

“I don’t think she should, Molly,” said Uncle John as firmly as possible. “She’s far too young.”

“John!” said Mum. “Did _he_ tell you to do this?”

“Not at all,” said Uncle John, hurt by the very idea of it. “She’s a baby! She shouldn’t be dating. And if he walks into the house, he should know what he’s getting into. I have my glock somewhere around here…”

“You will _not.”_

And no, that’s not exaggeration.

Abby said that she heard my Mum get a discreet call. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to know who had so discreetly called her. Mum told me all the details later.

“Molly, your daughter has been seen walking around with a boy,” said the voice on the other end.

“Not you too,” sighed Mum.

“Two cameras have picked her up, and a number of Sherlock’s homeless network have reported on it.”

“Yes, I _know,_ Mycroft.”

“If you know, then why are you not putting a stop to it?”

“ _Because she’s allowed to do it._ Now leave her alone, all of you!”

Mum may be angry and frustrated, but can you imagine what happened to me?

If all that wasn’t enough, Hamish also decided that it was his duty as a member of the irritatingly slow male species to corner me about it. He entered my room, looked around, waited for me to take my headphones off, and went:

“Katie, I’m not going to bother you about it,” he said fairly. “You have enough males looking out for you without that. But you should know, that as your brother, I will laugh at you at your wedding.”

I stuffed my face into a pillow and let out a soft scream as he ran away laughing.

With all this madness, I had told David when to meet me for my date. I told him where. I did not think to clarify that he does not need to pick me up.

And being the idiotic gentleman that he is, he decided to pick me up.

He walked up to the door, and knocked in. Abby looked at him up to down, smiled her sly little smile, and allowed him inside. “Kat-iieeeeee! There’s a boy here for you.”

I paused mid-eyeliner. Looked at my reflection in the glass, and thought to myself, “ _No. No way.”_

And I rushed down prudently, meeting a surprised David. “Hi! You look really – um – pretty –”

“We don’t have time for that, come on,” I said urgently. “Come on, David, let’s go.”

“I – uh – all right.”

“Come on, come on, come on,” I said, hustling him to the door.

“Slow down -”

“Is this the boy taking you out, Katie?” asked John.

“Hello sir,” said David. I smacked my forehead slowly.

“Come sit down, young man. I’d like a little chat.”

“Uncle John,” I said warningly. Unhappily, I remembered that both Mum and Aunt Mary were out.

“I only want to speak to him, Katie.”

“It’s all right, Katie,” said David. “I can speak to your Uncle –”

He took a step into the Watson’s drawing room, and found himself greeted by a tall figure in the shadows. Wearing a Belstaff.

Did I not say that my father was a drama queen?

“Good evening, Mr. Crown,” said Dad, in his best deep voice.

“Take a seat, young man,” said Uncle John.

“There goes the date,” I whispered.

“I –” began David.

“Do you think you are ready for commitment, especially since your parents are divorced?” fired my Dad.

David wiped his glasses, and my heart sank a little more.

“Yes, sir,” said David.

“Are you sure? Why have you had no serious relationship before this?” asked Dad. Uncle John now took the time to eye the medals framed on the mantel piece.

“I didn’t really like any other girl,” said David honestly.

“And you choose my daughter to begin your romantic endeavours with?”

“Well, I really like her, sir –”

The doorbell rang, and I opened. A man in a three piece suit stood at the doorway, with an umbrella. I resisted the urge to slam the door and pretend he didn’t exist.

“Not you,” I said, finding my worse suspicions confirmed.

“You would be foolish to expect otherwise, darling niece,” said Uncle Mycroft.

“I would be foolish indeed,” I said, resigned.

So here we are. In the Watson’s drawing room, the boy I like, being interrogated by my three very jealous and highly possessive boyfriends. Thank God David likes me, or he would have run when Uncle Mycroft pulled out a file full of his records to question him on. 

**Author's Note:**

> Love them reviews :)


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